


FIVE TIMES KISSED

by cormorans



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, spoilers for career of evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormorans/pseuds/cormorans





	1. One

If he were to be technical and pedantic - both traits easily applicable to the veteran - Strike would count the press of his lips on Robin’s hand as the very first time he had kissed her. There had been nothing lewd, no trace of carnality in the chaste contact; and Robin had been on the same page, her surprise swift to morph into what he liked to think as appraisal if not something akin to gratitude. 

Robin hadn’t been the only one taken by surprise, his own action a spur of the moment as he had teetered there, on the threshold of her flat, debating whether a hug was appropriate, if she would recoil at the display of so unusual a proximity.  
Of course they had touched before. 

Twice. 

On their first encounter, physicality was all there had been to it. Crushing into him, quite literally so, his yet to be secretary had been sent flying backward by his own body, and it was his hand, a firm grip latching on to her that had prevented the fateful fall down the stairs. Around her breast, a set of fingers had tightened, squeezing the flesh through layers of clothing, pulling on it to bring her back on her feet. Later on, Robin had often blushed in his presence, no doubt recollecting the memory which, Strike imagined, must have left a visible mark on her - and a sore one, too, if he had accurately read read her body language.  
Yet it was Robin, kind-hearted and determined Robin, who had initiated, enforced even, their next embrace. Around her shoulders, his arm had wrapped, his body supported by her tall and thin figure unyielding under the heavy weight of a man struggling to handle the pain of a sore knee below which a prosthetic leg had threatened to inflict further damage. Strike had been touched, his short words of gratefulness a paltry recognition of the woman’s gesture. 

The kiss he had placed on her hand had been unlike any of their previous close encounters. Neither accidental nor born out of a desire to be helpful, it simply had been a token of affection. Soft and delicate, her hand been clasped within his own, warm after nursing a cup of tea, lifted to his lips around which a stubble persisted, kissed. It had been simple. It was simple. Robin had smiled, so had he. Simple. Unused to such manifestations of what could only be described as tenderness for his newly acquired assistant, Strike had acted as if it were the most natural way to part.


	2. Two

Now the second kiss was an actual one. Both their mouths had been involved. Both their tongues, too.

It hadn’t been planned, nor had it been regretted by either of them - Strike knew as much. Their moods had been somehow in sync upon leaving the Met, each ensconced in their own musings, rehashing thoughts and qualms past the gyrating Scotland Yard sign after which he had stopped to light a cigarette. Stopping in her tracks, quiet and grave, Robin had gazed at the street with a blank stare indicating that she was still lost in what had transpired within the building beside them. He hadn’t broken the quietness, content to pull on his cigarette and to rest his back up against a brick wall to relieve his leg. There was a certain comfort in being able to share this with someone, a silence in no need of being disturbed, a reciprocal understanding of the other’s desires and wishes, a mutual and tacit agreement to speak only to say something of substance instead of a polite and awkward small talk neither of them had, now that he thought of it, ever resorted to.  
The heel of his prosthetic had crushed the stub on the pavement as he had answered her question. Robin had been eager to unload some of the burden placed on them, for the most part, by their meeting with Wardle, and he had replied as he always did: calm, to the point. In the light spring breeze, her hair had swayed, brushed against the side of her face and tucked behind her right ear by a ringless hand. Had it been a trigger? A permission of sorts for Strike to touch her again, his own fingers raising to pluck the residues of whatever stems or pollen was wont to be carried by the wind at that time of the year?

“You got something…” he had trailed off, struggling to entangle it from soft strands of red gold.

Pushing on his good leg, he had closed what space remained between them. From her hair to her face, his touch had slipped, caressing the soft skin under her jaw, sliding down to cup her nape. It had happened fast and yet the descent of his mouth upon hers had seemed to have stretched, seconds shaping into minutes.  
Robin hadn’t recoiled, her blue-grey eyes fixated on his own before slanting downwards to focus on his lips, hers parting to exhale a quiet and warm breath he had inhaled. His mouth had hovered then, excruciatingly delaying the inevitable. Would she mind the taste of smoke coating his tongue, he had wondered. His hesitation had given way to a second start, and Strike had brought his mouth to Robin’s. Slowly, delicately, their lips had met, grown used to one another’s then parted again, allowing for tongues to meet and slide, for the kiss to deepen. And it was the slight shift of her stance, the near imperceptible change as she moved even closer still that had bid him to grow bolder in his touch, his fingers to curl in the long locks of hair he had secretly yearned to stroke. He tasted tea in her mouth, tea and something he couldn’t define and immediately stored in his memory as a flavour entirely unique to Robin.

Nothing in their short conversation had led to this, nothing had hinted at the desire to kiss her. Why had he? Why now? Why there? The utter and complete lack of logic or sense behind his decision to kiss her had baffled him. Yet Robin hadn’t thwarted his advance, encouraging him instead by responding to it, her body relaxed, her lips yielding, her tongue seeking more as each second bled into the next. They stood there for a little while, not long enough to consider this a moment but long enough for Strike to know that the kiss would be pivotal. That they wouldn’t go back from it or dismiss it as they had when he had kissed her hand or leaned on her shoulders.  
It was Strike who pulled away. Reluctantly so, his mouth withdrew and the eyes he had closed opened again to peer down at the only woman who had never sought to change him - or encourage him to do so. With the same delicacy as earlier, his hand moved. Within it, the small piece of whatever tree or plant had blown away and got caught in her hair. A flick of his thumb propelled it down onto the pavement. 

In the same silence, they both had looked at each other. Robin, flushed and bright-eyed, had fixed her clothes in no need of it; Strike, barely concealing half a smile, had pushed a hand through his dense and curly hair which had stayed exactly as it always was. The pair had resumed walking as if they had only paused to discuss a mundane subject, careful to avoid any contact even in the crammed Tube, and the kiss hadn’t been mentioned or referred to in the following weeks. Strike had returned to Elin, Robin to the remnants of her relationship with Matthew.


	3. Three

Her engagement ring was still off. Strike’s gaze never lingered, his eyes swift to catch sight of her naked finger every morning - or whenever it was that they first saw each other during the day. There was no reason for Robin to offer any explanation, nor was there for Strike to ask. He never had. The kiss wasn’t mentioned either. As if it hadn’t happened, a moment stolen, both of them remained quiet about it, each to their own feelings and assumptions as to what it had meant or what it hadn’t meant. Days passed by. A week.

“Fancy eating here?” Strike asked her.  
It was late. Late enough for the lamp on Robin’s desk to be on, its light casting shadows on the wall upon which her profile was gazed at. “Chinese?” Not that he particularly was hungry for that kind of food but the Chinese takeaway was the closest one, the dishes decent enough, the price cheap. Her agreement sent him out of the door with a shake of his head declining her going out for it. Strike needed to stretch his legs. And he needed a smoke.  
By the time he came back, Robin had cleaned the cups they’d been using, garnered a couple of plates and some paper napkins. “I got us some beers, too.” Would she drink?  
They were both famished and at first, they didn’t speak much, content to sit side by side on the sofa that would, with each of their change in position, fart under the weights of their bodies. On the small table, open plastic boxes were scattered, their contents spilled on both plates, and the bottles of beer were sipped from. Robin was on her third one by the time she stopped eating. With a sigh, she’d reclined against the back of the settee, closed her eyes. “I can’t eat another bite,” she half harrumphed.

  
“Not even for those insipid cookies?”  
From the paper bag, Strike fished out the two small cookies containing hackneyed sayings which were, for most people, the only reason to break into the dessert. Robin chuckled. “Pick one for me,” she asked, left hand open for him to place a cookie on her palm. Another swig of the bottle before she sat up, kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs underneath her body. He didn’t crack his open. Not yet. Just like her, Strike was full. Besides, those cookies had no taste.  
A crunching sound indicated that Robin’s teeth had pierced through the thick pastry, crumbs of it swiftly brushed off her blouse with the back of her fingers before they fluttered to the piece of paper pulled out from the broken shell of the cookie.

  
“Change can hurt but it leads a path to something better,” she read slowly.  
Silence fell. Strike frowned when Robin failed to say anything, to offer a witty comment or a derisive chuckle to the inane saying. The broken breath she took in shattered the quietness he’d been wary to disturb. He sat up. She shook her head. “Robin,” he started. The simple utterance of her name was greeted with another silent ' _no_ ', her hair falling to curtain her face upon which both hands were now pressing. Pride or a fierce will to appear stronger than she might be in that moment, whatever it was it kept him at bay, forced him to listen to a couple of stifled sobs.There were many things he wished he could have done then. Tear the piece of paper. Stomp on it. Punch the man she was still considering marrying. A sigh escaped him. Whether she heard it, whether that prompted her to wipe her cheeks and turn to face him, he never knew.  
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.  
it was his turn to shake his head. Her apology wasn’t necessary. One leg still folded under her lap, the other resting against the sofa, her foot flat on the floor, Robin looked down again. The paper was played with, her fingers busying themselves with rolling then unrolling it.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” Strike answered.  
Her head picked up then. Staring at him, she remained silent. Out of disbelief, out of gratitude? That, too, he never knew. “Who cares what that stupid cookie has to say.” That brought a soft, sad smile to her lips. “Whatever happens, Robin, you’ll get through it. I’m sure of it.”  
And to avoid embarrassing her, to ignore the painful and sharp twist his innards were being subjected to, Strike crushed his cookie.  
“Your shoes will make you happy today.”  
Her laugh rang, echoed by his own chuckle. “Well, what do you know?” he muttered.  
With a loud fart hissing from the sofa, Robin readjusted her position to face him, both legs under her in a kneeling posture. She leaned in to pluck the piece of paper from his grip.  
“I’ll never look at my shoes the same way.”

  
Strike smiled. Robin looked up, her lips still slightly curved. Her eyes were locked with his, something he didn’t mind. Slowly, she moved closer. Silence had a different quality to it then, the air around them suffused with tacit expectations and unspoken words. Strike didn’t mind that either. From her eyes glimmering with the moisture left by her tears and what alcohol she’d had, his gaze slante to focus on her cheeks which were a dark shade of pink as if she’d been out in the cold wind and the snow, to sweep over her lips which parted to release a whisper.  
“Don’t.”  
His eyes shifted again then, his brows drew together. Don’t speak? Don’t move? Before he could ask, she spoke again.  
“You’re a really nice person. Cormoran Strike.”  
His own words echoed from months back, returned to him.  
With a kiss.

  
Somehow Robin had moved closer still, found the corner of his mouth. Strike didn’t move. When her lips hovered over his own, he sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, waited. And they kissed again. Her soft lips moved slowly at first, parted, exhaled in his mouth when their tongues met to slide against one another. Their positions rendered the kiss clumsy but he didn’t dare do anything, didn’t dare wrap an arm about her waist to pull her on his lap, didn’t dare do anything but match the motions of her tongue and lips getting acquainted with his. It must have been the need for her to take a breath that brought an end to it. As if he cared. A tilt of his head sealed his mouth on hers once more. Through his hair, her fingers pushed before they stroked the side of his face and rested there, holding him into place to take control of the situation again. He smiled.  
_Stay_ , he wanted to say. Robin withdrew, spared him a glance. It felt cold without her touch. As silent as he’d been, Strike watched her bring a hand to her lips. There was no regrets to be observed, no shock either.

  
Still, she refused to say anything as she moved away from him to stand up and pick up the remnants of their dinner.She carried the pile of crockery and half empty boxes out of the office and Strike glanced to the empty space she had just occupied. It was clear that Robin didn’t want to broach the subject - it was also clear that he had no intention to nudge her. If she wouldn’t talk about it, he wouldn’t either. What was there to say? Her tears, however beer-fueled, were evidence enough. She wasn’t over Matthew. She didn’t want to be over Matthew. The status quo of their broken engagement wasn’t something she was coming to terms with because she wasn’t ready, so intent was she on mending a near decade of commitment - as unofficial as it might have been.

  
The sofa was abandoned, his coat retrieved from the hook.  
When Robin stepped back into the office, she found it empty.


End file.
